


Leftovers

by Vulpesmellifera



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-TWOTL, Though they're Murder Husbands, so slightly murdery domestic fluff, what does Hannibal do with the leftovers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 22:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/pseuds/Vulpesmellifera
Summary: Will discovers that Hannibal has a soft spot for one other kind of creature in his life.





	Leftovers

**Author's Note:**

> While I was watching the show for the first time, the question that kept hanging around in my head as I watched those sumptuous dinner scenes was, "what the hell does he do with the leftovers?" Hannibal doesn't seem like someone who would just throw good food away. By the end of season 1, I had come up with my own headcanon as to how he dealt with the problem, and was prompted to share it recently on Twitter with teiandcookies and A & C Thirst Factory. 
> 
> That led to this little plot bunny making its way out of my brain. Please enjoy. 
> 
> Thanks to ReynardinePotter, lovetincture, and Lady Cleo for looking this over before posting. You are the best! <3

The coop is a 10’ by 12’ room with a gabled roof. A single rod along one wall sits at waist height for perching. The flooring and walls are plywood. The inside is whitewashed - a mixture of powdered lime and water. There are aspen shavings on the floor, tossed with rose petals, dried heads of chamomile, and sprigs of lavender, all intended to deter an occupation of insects. The nestboxes on the wall opposite the perch are lined with hay that Hannibal inspected and harvested himself at a nearby farm. There’s also one window to allow in natural light. A window box of herbs hangs on the outside frame - rosemary, oregano, and thyme. The flowers attract bees of all kinds, but now that Hannibal has noticed the honeybees, he’s decided, soon, to locate the keeper of the hives so he can sample the local honey. 

He’s painted the outside of the coop a white color named ‘Polished Pearl.’ The trim around the door and the window is ‘No More Drama,’ a name which amused Hannibal so much he almost started laughing in the middle of the paint aisle. It’s a cool, deep red with enough blue in it to give the appearance of dark magenta. 

The path to the door is laid with pearlescent white pea gravel. Hollyhocks, mountain mint, and aromatic aster grow along the path. On the shady side of the coop are green ferns and Virginia bluebells that have already flowered and wilted away in the summer heat. The chickens themselves are funny little birds with silky white feathers - indeed, the common name for the breed is Silkie - and black skin. They come when Hannibal calls them, and if he deigns to pick one up, they nestle in his arms as if he were the mother hen and they the little chicks seeking the warmth of her feathers. It’s amusing to see Hannibal with his placid gaze towering among his chickens: the proverbial wolf among the sheep. 

These tiny brained miniature theropods have no clue. If someone who Hannibal cares about is sick, one of the chickens becomes soup.  Otherwise, they live an enviable existence, scratching and foraging in the fenced run outside the coop.   


And on some days, they feast.    


Will approaches, the gravel crunching below his shoes. The sun wanes, and an early evening breeze carries the scent of jasmine from the nearby garden. Hannibal waits for him as he faces the coop.

“So, you mean to tell me that all that time you were seeing people in your home, and with all those dinner parties you threw, you never told a single person that you kept chickens in the backyard?”   


“Alana knew,” Hannibal admits. His quiet tone is regretful, but his answer grates against Will’s nerves nonetheless. “But you, Will, benefited directly from one of my feathered charges.”   


“Hm. Chicken soup.” He places his hands on his hips and stretches one shoulder back as the memory plays through his mind. He scratches his scarred cheek. The healed tissue pulls below his skin some days, causing a slight ache in his jaw.

His only experience with living chickens is from his boyhood. His old stomping grounds were not limited to the fields owned by his father, but also to the neighbor who owned chickens and horses. The neighbor, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with ash brown hair always caught in a ponytail, would warn Will not to get too close to the animals, but she didn’t mind his half-feral wanderings on her land. 

Her rooster was mean, with a penchant for sneaking up behind unsuspecting small boys and slashing naked calves open with sharp spurs. The hens were stinky, ugly things with pink, pebbled skin bared in patches. Will once watched in speechless horror as they decimated a nest of baby mice that his neighbor uncovered beneath her potting bench. Tiny, wriggling pink bodies caught their eye, and within seconds, the birds descended and swallowed the creatures whole. 

The irony was that mama mouse had built her nest with discarded chicken feathers.   


Hannibal’s chickens are pristine white, as if the man was out here bathing them while Will slept. Maybe that’s exactly what he did.    


The most disturbing memory he has of his neighbor’s chickens, though, was the way they devoured leftovers. One day, he saw the woman walk to the coop with a large, silver pot in her arms. He emerged from a curve of raspberry bramble and followed her down the pathway.   


“What are you feeding them today?” She never seemed to tire of his questions.   


“Chicken soup.”   


Will halted, kicking up a plume of dust from the well worn trail. The woman looked at him over her shoulder and laughed. “I know, it’s awful, isn’t it? But I made a lot, and we’ve had about all we can stomach. This is just the dregs.”   


Will couldn’t deny his curiosity. He followed the neighbor to the coop, and watched through the chicken wire as she entered and her “clucks" as she called them, gathered around her ankles. She tossed the contents of the pot onto the ground, and the chickens went into a frenzy to claim the choice pieces.   


Will’s eyes grew as big as chicken eggs themselves to see what the hens favored. The neighbor winked at him, the lines around her eyes crinkled with mirth. “The chicken pieces are their favorite part. They eat the vegetables next, and the noodles last.”    


Will watched that exact order unfold, as two larger hens scuffled over the last piece of chicken meat before turning their attention to the soggy vegetables.   


Chicken soup. 

“What was her name?” Will asks Hannibal. Hannibal names all of his chickens.   


“His name was Hector.” There’s a quirk of amusement to Hannibal’s lips that tells Will there is something more to this name, and he ought to look it up later.   


“Well, he was delicious,” Will says.    


Hannibal carries in his arms two Tupperware dishes. He hands one to Will, and Will shivers as their fingers touch. The chickens, sensing a cornucopia of flavorful goods, flock to the fence. 

“Yes,” Hannibal says as he peels back the lid of the container he holds. “He was.” He’s no longer referring to Hector the chicken.    


Will opens the lid on the container he carries. Inside are the last bits of their dinner from the past two evenings.    


The chickens are show-quality Silkies, Hannibal had told him. He’d traveled across state lines to locate the breeder and asked him for a “paltry five hens and one rooster.” When he’d returned with eight hens, one rooster, and a body in the trunk, Will shook his head and remarked, “I thought we were keeping a low profile.”

“He was an unscrupulous businessman.”   


“Of chickens?”   


“He was unforgivably rude.”   


Will barks a laugh, though warm curls of unmitigated pleasure unfurl across his face and his gut. He’s rude all the time, but Hannibal forgives him. Eventually.   


There’s been a lot to forgive for both of them. But they’re here now, standing at a coop that Will built as a testament to their commitment to stay here, together, for a long while. It’s full of chickens who trust Hannibal with their lives. Will should take it as a lesson, but as he looks at the man beside him, he can’t help but see someone who is his protector and his keeper. Someone who would kill to keep him.    


If he doesn’t end up in a soup.    


Hannibal unlatches the screen door to the run, and steps through. Will follows him. The chickens chirp and cluck and gather at their ankles, and Will thinks of sharks following chum.   


In unison, they dump the stewed contents of an unscrupulous businessman onto the ground, and together, they watch the Silkies scrabble over the choice bits of meat.    


_ It’s beautiful.  _   
  


**Author's Note:**

> In the Trojan war, Hector killed Patroclus by stabbing him in the stomach with a spear. I think Hannibal would have found it amusing to feed a “Hector” to his Patroclus.
> 
> This wasn't the fiction I planned to dip my toe into the fandom with, but nonetheless, here it is. I have a Sherlock/Hannibal crossover planned, but who knows, maybe I'll have a few other plot bunnies jump out of the hutch. Thanks for reading!


End file.
